Live from the Road is FREE on Amazon, June 20-24

Jack Kerouac’s On the Road inspired
me to take my own journey down the Mother Road in 2007. I knew I’d write
something about the trip, but I wasn’t sure what it would be. I wrote some
articles for the magazine where I worked at the time, but they were nonfiction travelogue
pieces. They didn’t convey some of the hilarity and magic that happened when my
friend and our two daughters hit Route 66, starting in Chicago and ending in
L.A. nine years ago.

A year after the journey, I decided that fiction would be my vehicle for
capturing the essence of the trip. I changed all the specifics, of course, but
the spirit of that journey remained as I wrote Live from the Road, my tribute to Jack Kerouac and all road
warriors who know the essence of any trip lies in the journey and not
necessarily the destination.

The real story behind the novel Live
from the Road began one night over a couple of beers at a local bar. It
took more than a year to plan and pull off.

“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” I asked my friend Joy one rainy
night as we sat commiserating about our complacent lives. “I’ve always wanted
to travel Route 66 from Chicago to L.A. But I’ve never found anyone who wanted
to accompany me.”

“You’ve found her now,” Joy said, and thus began more than a year of
plotting and planning our escape from our lives for more than two weeks on the
road.

Romantic visions of Jack Kerouac and the open road, John Steinbeck and a dog
named Charley, neon lights and roadside motels clouded our minds as the mundane
details of the trip threatened to intrude on our starry-eyed dreams.

Our daughters, both in their twenties, asked if they could join us. We were
astounded.

“Why would you want to spend your summer vacation with two middle-aged
women?” I asked my daughter Anna.

“It’ll be a blast,” she said.

Joy’s daughter Hillary said something similar, and so we became a foursome
of road warriors ready to set forth on one of the most historic roads in the
world.

Simply saying “Route 66” conjures up visions of greasy hamburgers, neon
signs flashing “No Vacancy,” characters out of a Sam Shepard play, and, of
course, freedom to disappear into the gut of this country. Even though the trip
occurred years ago, those visions still reverberate within my soul.
My journal became my companion on the trip, as well as emails sent to
friends and family whenever we had the Internet. Serendipity and downright
foolishness collided into one of the most memorable trips of my life.

Soon after the trip, I began writing the fictional version using the seeds
of events from the journey. All I had to do was take a small event from the
real trip and amplify it into a golden nugget of a story. Amazingly, there were
many stories that never came close to appearing in the book because they were
just too outlandish. Those stories remain sacred, only to be pulled out when
the four of us reunite to reminisce.

Live from the Road—my fourth novel—became the first book I
published as an Indie Author in 2012. My other books had been published
traditionally. I even had an agent for a bit before becoming disillusioned with
the world of publishing. This road trip novel also marked my return to writing
in a very different world from the one I’d known. Since its publication, I’ve
written nine more novels, with four more simmering on the back burner in my
mind.

The characters from Live from the Road
always repeat one ridiculous axiom throughout the story: “Always head in the direction we’re going.”

That’s exactly what I continue to do every day as a writer. The world of
writing and publishing is undergoing a revolution right now, and I’m happy to
be a part of it. As I head in the direction I’m going, I’m writing and loving
every minute of the trip.

May all your journeys be fruitful. And if you need to be reminded of the
importance of enjoying the ride on the way to your journey, give Live from the Road a read. If nothing
else, you laugh at the antics.

Excerpt from Live from the Road

Chapter 1 - Lake Michigan to the Pacific

Route 66 – just the name conjures up visions of flashing neon motel signs,
convertibles filled with carefree travelers, Jack Kerouac-like adventures, and
John Steinbeck writing odes to a dog. Route 66 connotes movement toward
unparalleled scenery, unexpected miracles, and dreams come true.
My best friend Sally and I heaped all those expectations on our own personal
journey down Route 66 – the road Steinbeck dubbed the “Mother Road.” I’m sure
the author never envisioned “mothers” such as us hitting the road to discover
our own meanings of life. When our grown daughters decided they wanted to join
us on our journey, we welcomed them aboard. From the beginning, I heaped plenty
of expectations on that glory road. I’d been numb for five years, and I
suspected my daughter lived in the same limbo. With Sally and her daughter,
Ramona, as our companions, I hoped CC and I would be able to peer into the
abyss of our sadness created when my son Sean died five years earlier. Whatever
happened, I knew with a certainty my life would change during and after this
trip. I never predicted it would turn all four lives upside down. It’s probably
not surprising – the path Route 66 followed carried many lost and broken souls
from the displaced Native Americans on the Trail of Tears to the Dust Bowl
victims of the 1930s. Even Jack Kerouac faced his share of demons while
traveling the Mother Road.

The road’s original goal – to link Lake Michigan to the Pacific Ocean 2,400
miles away – still remains, even though most of the original road does not. The
four of us raced toward the charm of Route 66. We yearned to discover its magic
as the glory road leading to salvation and the Shangri-La of America –
California. We found the road paved, not in gold, but in broken pieces of
asphalt and towns killed by the interstate. But amid the actual reality of the
road, we found moments of inspiration and serendipity.

After months of planning, we flew from our homes in Florida to Chicago in
early June 2007. When we landed at O’Hare Airport, I looked at my daughter CC
with her backpack and sleeping bag on her back, torn black T-shirt advertising
Eraserhead, dyed-red and spiked hair, and I knew the years had sped by faster
than I ever knew possible. Recently divorced from her father, I was beginning a
new era in my life as a 50-year-old single woman. I stared at CC, attempting to
put it all together in my mind. Even though I didn’t look it, I felt as if I
was the same age as my 25-year-old daughter waiting for her luggage to appear
on the carousel. Was this really the baby I nestled at my breast all those
years ago?

“Mom, watch out,” CC said as I almost backed into a stroller being pushed by
a toddler. I looked down into the face of a tiny baby sleeping peacefully as
the older sibling attempted to maneuver around the people waiting for the bags.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the mother walking behind the stroller and watching
both her children carefully. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I really shouldn’t let her do it, but she
insists on doing everything herself.”

“Really? I wonder what it would be like to have a child like that,” I said
as I pointed my thumb at CC. “This one has always done exactly what I have
said.” I rolled my eyes.

The mother smiled at me, and then took in CC’s hair and torn shirt. She
quickly looked down at her own daughter and then at the baby sleeping in the
stroller.

“Enjoy them now,” I said. “They grow up so fast you won’t believe it, and
then they’re gone.”
I turned away quickly so she wouldn’t notice the sudden tears forming. The
words slipped out of my mouth without thinking much about them. Only when I
heard them out loud did I realize what I’d said. CC was right next to me, but
her brother Sean was not and never would be there again. I wanted to chase
after that mother and tell her not only to enjoy, but also to hold onto them
for as long as she could. It could be over in the time it took to tie their shoes.

“You okay, Mom?” CC asked. She was looking at me intently.

“Fine, fine. I was just remembering you and Sean at that age. It’s over so
quickly.” I was fighting to keep control there in the middle of the airport.

“This trip is going to be good for all of us,” she said.

She gave me a quick hug, unusual for my daughter who usually abhorred
physical displays of emotion. Luckily one of our bags appeared right then, and
the moment passed.

Sally and her daughter Ramona stood on the other side of the carousal. I saw
Sally’s bag with the pink ribbons on the handle go by. It was a gorilla of a
suitcase – very hard to miss. Sally said she’d rather have one large suitcase
rather than the smaller two or three bags the rest of us carried. Problem was
she couldn’t get it off the carousal, so Ramona was left to recover it while
her two bags passed by unnoticed. Thank goodness the gorilla had wheels.

Once we picked up our rental, a red mini-van, we loaded all of our
belongings in the back. CC was the packer in the crew, and she told Sally that
her bag would always have to go in first because it was too big to go on top of
any of the other bags.

Sally took the driver’s seat – she always drove, and I never argued. It was
her way of maintaining control. I took shotgun with the maps and directions and
Route 66 books. It actually worked out better this way. I liked giving
directions as much as Sally liked driving the engine. Ramona would be our tour
guide as she read from the Route 66 books we’d been collecting over the past year
of planning for this adventure.

“First stop is Wal-Mart for a cooler and two tents,” Sally announced.
“Everyone keep your eyes peeled for a good exit.”

After settling in our hotel, we decided we would walk toward Lake Michigan
and find a place for dinner and whatever else might grab our attention.

The full moon directed us downtown. We crossed over the Chicago River,
reveling in Chicago’s architecture. Some dubbed it the capital of architecture
and the birthplace of the skyscraper. Studs Terkel called it a “city of men.”
And as I looked up at the dizzying heights of the buildings surrounding us, I
could see why. We stopped often for pictures, asking people we passed on the
sidewalk to snap a shot or two.

We didn’t know where we were headed until Ramona spotted a banner waving in
the breeze over a balcony railing, advertising “Rooftop Dining.”

“That looks like the perfect place,” Ramona said as she pointed to the sign.
“It’s even got a view of the Sears Tower.”

A small elevator meant for two people opened up in the lobby.

“Come on, Mom,” Ramona said when Sally hesitated to crowd into the small
cubicle. “It’s just a short ride to the rooftop.”

“All right, but I’m finding stairs for the trip down,” Sally said.

Sally hated small confined places, but we crowded around her and exchanged
one-liners until we spewed out to the rooftop, where a waiter stood ready for
the energy of four females set loose on the road for several weeks of freedom.
Freedom is just another word for doing whatever we pleased.
“I’d like to hear some blues or jazz tonight,” I told Sally as we waited to
be seated. The full moon began its ascent over Chicago’s skyscrapers, providing
a soft glow over our already glowing faces. “Johnny and I came here twice, but
he never liked going to clubs.”

“Then we’ll do it tonight,” Sally said. “Anything is possible.”

“Do you really believe that?” I asked. Sally’s perpetual optimism never
failed to amaze me.
“I have no choice but to believe it,” Sally said. “It’s the only way I can
get up every morning and remain positive.”

The waiter, young, handsome and very Jamaican, was actually the bartender,
but he had to fill in for the usual Friday night waitress.

“She had quite a hangover from last night,” he said. “So I’m going to sit
you beautiful ladies right here where you’ll notice there’s an extra chair just
for me.”

“I don’t believe it!” Sally said. “They have hot dogs on the menu.”

“Mom, you’re not going to order a hot dog on our one night in Chicago,”
Ramona said.

“I most certainly am,” Sally said. “And I’d like us all to make a pact. No
criticizing each other for just being ourselves.”

Ramona shrugged and CC rolled her eyes, but eventually both of them agreed.
Then they all looked at me.

“It’s a part of my personality to make fun,” I said. “Does that count as
criticizing?”

“You know what I mean,” Sally said. “If I want to eat five hot dogs for
dinner no one is allowed to say anything.”

“What if it gives you gas and makes the rest of us sick? Can we say
something to you then?” I asked.
Now it was Sally’s turn to roll her eyes. She ordered the hot dog with
everything except sauerkraut.
“Does that mean I can’t tease you about all the hand lotion you put on your
hands?” CC asked me.
“I have no idea what you mean,” I said as I reached around to my purse
hanging from my chair to see if I had a bottle of Aveeno ready to apply when I
was alone.

Our substitute waiter messed up the drink orders, but he was so cute and
funny we forgave him. We ended up with an extra drink or two, mixing our red
wines with the whites. Two margaritas, one with salt and the other without,
magically appeared when no one had even ordered a margarita. It was that kind
of night. The margarita glasses soon stood empty on a table overflowing with
dirty dishes and empty glasses.

“So where can we hear some live music tonight?” Sally asked our
bartender-turned-waiter. “We have a need of the blues.”

“You ladies couldn’t be blue if you held your breath for two days,” our
fantasy man said. Even I laughed at that corny line.

He told us to head down to Buddy Guy’s Legends. Buddy Guy – the bluesman who
inspired Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton – had a club on Wabash a few blocks
away.

“Buddy sometimes sits in on a set or two, but no one knows when,” our
waiter/bartender said. “He even comes here for dinner once in awhile.”

We didn’t care if Buddy was in the house or not; we just wanted to hear
music live in Chicago. Sally and I headed to the bathrooms on the top floor
while CC and Ramona raced down the four flights of stairs to the lobby.

All the toilets in the bathroom were close to overflowing. I chose the least
full one which meant there was an inch from the water level to the top of the
toilet. After I finished, I attempted to flush, and so did four other women who
had come in behind us. The water in the bowl gurgled but didn’t go down. I
shrugged my shoulders and left the stall. As Sally and I stood at the sink
washing our hands, water began seeping out of all five stalls.

“Quick, let’s get out of here,” I said, not bothering to dry my hands so we
could beat the other women to the small elevator.

I pulled Sally’s arm, and we ran. We jumped in the small box before Sally
could change her mind.
As the door began closing, a hand reached out and shoved the door open. A
small black man wearing a beret and a Hawaiian shirt entered the elevator
behind us.

Sally grabbed her mouth and began gagging.

“Something the matter?” the man asked as the doors shut on the three of us
now crammed together in the small space.

“We just had a trauma in the bathroom, and she’s claustrophobic,” I said.

“This place is notorious for overflowing toilets, and this elevator is more
like a moving shoe box. Where are you two lovely ladies headed tonight?” he
asked.

“We’re going to a club,” I said. Sally stood mute with her hand still firmly
clasped over her mouth. “Some place down on Wabash.”

The elevator made a rumbling sound, and then jerked to a stop. Nothing
happened for a few seconds. Sally moaned next to me.

“Now isn’t that something? I happen to own a place down on Wabash. Place
called Legends. Ever heard of it?”

“That’s where we’re going!” I said. “Then you must be Buddy Guy.” I held out
my hand, but Sally did not because she now had both hands over her mouth.

“The one and the same.” He clasped my hand then pulled me close for a hug as
the doors opened onto the lobby where Ramona and CC stood waiting.

Buddy Guy continued holding me as Sally hurled chunks of undigested hot dog
across the small lobby. CC and Ramona jumped out of the line of fire just in
time.

“Been a long time since I had that effect on a woman,” Buddy said as Sally
gasped for air and fell out of the elevator.

“Been a long time since I’ve done that,” Sally said as she reached for
Kleenex in her purse. “I’m so sorry. Did I get it on anyone?”

“Route 66 here we come. This trip is off to a rip-roaring start,” I said as
we headed out into the night with Buddy Guy as our very own personal escort. “I
hope the old road can withstand the onslaught.”

“I’m sure you ladies will do it justice in the best tradition of road
warriors everywhere,” Buddy said.

“On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again,” CC sang. “The
life I love is making music with my friends. And I can’t wait to get on the
road again.”

“You can really sing,” Buddy said. “You in a band?”

“Not really,” CC said. “Just fool around sometimes.”

“Let’s get you fooling around some tonight then,” he said.

The moon, large and orange, illuminated us in soft natural light as the
lights of downtown led the way. The city of men merged with nature as we
marched toward Lake Michigan.

“Ever notice how when the moon is larger, it’s actually smaller,” Sally
announced.

Somehow, it made perfect sense on a night when sense had nothing to do with
anything at all.

Get Live on the Road for FREE On Amazon June 20-24!

About the Author:

Bestselling author, P.C.
Zick describes herself as a storyteller no matter what she writes. And she
writes in a variety of genres, including romance, contemporary fiction, and
nonfiction. She's won various awards for her essays, columns, editorials, articles,
and fiction

Many of her novels contain
stories of Florida and its people and environment, which she credits as giving
her a rich base for her storytelling. "Florida's quirky and abundant
wildlife - both human and animal - supply my fiction with tales almost too
weird to be believable. Her Behind the
Love trilogy - contemporary romance - is also set in Florida, but she's now
working on a series set in the Smoky Mountains.

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